


fuck the government and the movie scene and the apple pie american dream

by bytheinco_nstantmoon



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempt At Psychological Horror, Committing Felonies Together Is a Love Language, Do Not Trust The Government They Are Shady as Hell, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Internalized Homophobia, Jonathan Byers is a Dumbass, Multi, Murder, Mutual Pining, Polyamory, Pyrokinetics, Superpowers, Telepathy, Tenderness, The Harrington's A+ Parenting, Theoretical Phsyics, This Is STUPID, am i supposed to tag this stuff, anyway, but it made me feel good, but like she will be here, but like... later, but not, hey remember when i said i was gonna put my oc in a fic, in all honesty you should turn back now, jon goes wild abt stoncy again, just realised how that might come off, no? well she's here, please read it it's fun and sexy i swear, she's here in spirit, shoutout to han!!, so much mutual pining, thanks han (:, thats it, thats not rlly an important tag, well not in chapter 1, what's the tag for like, without her steve's dad wouldn't be nearly as much of a dick, would like to clarify jonathan does not commit the murder, you know what? i tried
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27679480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bytheinco_nstantmoon/pseuds/bytheinco_nstantmoon
Summary: Unfortunately, Nancy is in love with Jonathan Byers.Also unfortunately, someone's begun nosing around a little too closely, and finding secrets she'd rather not share. She's going to keep them safe. She's going to keep them all safe.Whatever it takes.-or; experiments aren't the only way to get superpowers, and superpowers aren't the only thing an experiment is worth.
Relationships: Jonathan Byers & Eleven | Jane Hopper & Kali Prasad & Nancy Wheeler & Original Female Character(s), Jonathan Byers/Steve Harrington/Nancy Wheeler, Tommy Hagan & Steve Harrington & Carol Perkins, Tommy Hagan/Carol Perkins
Comments: 11
Kudos: 32





	1. whatever it takes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scoutshonour](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scoutshonour/gifts).



> sorry sathana this is gifted 2 u mostly bc ur the only person i decided to put my oc in for...... i hope u love her as much as i do
> 
> real talk this is actually a story i love so!!! please read y'all i will love you forever

Unfortunately, Nancy is in love with Jonathan Byers.

She knows this like she knows the color of the sky, like she knows the sun rises in the East and two plus two is four. She knows this like she knows her own heartbeat, thrumming solid and constant in her chest. She knows this because it’s true, undeniably and utterly and with such ferocity that she knows it can never die. Nancy is in love with Jonathan Byers, and she carries it with her in her veins, in her heart, in her skin and bones, flowing in and out of her with every breath. It’s her miracle and her saving grace; it’s her constant. It’s the comfort she can depend on when she feels like there’s nothing else. There’s a certain calm about it. It doesn’t rage or tempest inside her. It just beats in time with her heart, and she  _ knows. _

She’s loved him for as long as she can remember. She hates that, just a little bit. She wishes she could remember meeting him, remember the moment she first decided his soul belonged in tandem with hers. There’s something beautiful in the uncertainty, though- Nancy doesn’t know when or why it happened, but she knows she’s loved Jonathan Byers her whole life, and there’s something stable in that. It’s steady and calming, just like him, just like the way she loves him, and she can’t resent that. She loves the way she loves him. Is that strange?

She doesn’t remember when it happened, but she does somewhat remember when it changed. It’s not a whole memory. It’s just a hazy recollection of some summer’s day, back in ‘78 or ‘79 or something like that; it’s a half formed echo of a laugh, of his hand slipping into hers, of the golden sunlight bursting over his face and her realising he was an angel.  _ Oh, I’m in love with you,  _ she’d thought, in the easy, simple way that kids often do. And she still does. And she knows, in the same way she knows the moon and the tides, that she always will.

So yes, Nancy loves Jonathan Byers. There’s just the pesky little problem of actually  _ telling  _ him that.

“I love you,” she says, at four in the afternoon on a Monday, with their history project spread out on the diner table between them. He’s just bought her a milkshake. Strawberry- her favorite kind. He hadn’t even had to ask, and she loves him. He just rolls his eyes and goes back to work with a smile.

“I love you,” she says, at eight in the morning on a Tuesday, with his jacket wrapped around her shoulders because it’s freezing and they’re stuck out in the bleachers for some stupid school spirit thing. It’s his favorite jacket, his jean jacket, and she feels so at home in it, and she loves him. He just laughs, and she loves the sound.

“I love you,” she says, at seven in the evening on a Wednesday, with Rocky Horror playing because it’s her favorite movie and Jonathan had put it on to waste the time until the boys finish their campaign. He doesn’t put his arm around her, but he lets her lean on his shoulder. She loves him, and he just watches her favorite movie with her for the millionth time.

“I love you,” she says, at twelve in the afternoon on a Thursday, with his chem homework open on her lap and her English homework open on his. What are friends for if not help each other out, right? He’s her friend, and she loves him. He just glances up, his eyes catching hers for half a moment, looking completely content, looking like the other half of her soul. He looks at her like she’s the only thing in the world, and then he writes down the next answer on her homework.

“I love you,” she says, at ten at night on a Friday, and he is sprawled out across her bed while she sits at her desk because he got off work at nine thirty but he’s too tired to drive all the way home quite yet. Her window is open for when he decides to leave. She wants to close it so badly, but she trusts him as much as she loves him, and she knows that he’ll come back. She’s laughing at some remark he’s made. He just grins and turns onto his side so that he’s facing her.

“I love you,” she says, at two in the morning on a Saturday, because she’d forced him to come to this party with her and he’d forced her to leave a half hour ago, and now they’re sitting in his car at the quarry with nothing between them but the moonlight and the aching space of what she says, what he doesn’t understand. He says it back, and Nancy cries when she gets home.

“I love you,” she says, at nine in the morning on a Sunday, with the sunlight bursting over his face and turning him into an angel. He’d helped her sneak out of church, and she loves him, and she knows with complete certainty that Jonathan Byers is the only angel she’s ever going to need.

_ So I tell you, and you don't get it, and so it goes, on and on and on, the two of us circling and twining around each other in some strange cycle, weighted with unsaid words. It aches sometimes, like a physical pain, because I just want to kiss that stupid smirk off your face, but aside from those explosive moments, those moments when I completely, utterly, ferociously want you, then I’m okay with it. Happy with it, even. I have loved you for as long as I have loved, and I wouldn’t want to live any other way. You’re my second heartbeat, my first thought, my favorite sunrise in the morning. You’re mine. Not fully, but I don’t need that. I just need you. _

All this is what she writes at two in the morning, half her drunkenness off alcohol and half of it off exhaustion, thinking of Jonathan’s smile, thinking of Jonathan’s voice, thinking of Jonathan, Jonathan,  _ Jonathan,  _ and thinking of how she loves him. She loves him. God, she loves him.

She closes the notebook and puts it in her desk drawer, and that’s good enough for now.

.

.

Nancy fucking  _ hates  _ Simon Goranski. She doesn’t know him personally, but if she did, it wouldn’t be for long. She’d kill him on sight. Blast his stupid physicist brain right out of his head. Normally, she’s not totally down with murder, but at this exact moment, stuck in Physics class with Mr Reinfield droning on and on about “flexible fields” and the formula she’s supposed to memorise, she would gladly do something nefarious.

“Well, you look like you’re having a great time,” Jonathan whispers. She scowls at him. He just snickers quietly and writes something down on his paper- something that is very definitely  _ not  _ whatever numbers Mr Reinfield is writing on the board, so at least he’s distracted too.

Nancy nudges his ankle with her toes. “What the hell is he talking about?” she whispers back. Jonathan just shrugs. “Oh, you’re great help. Thanks, Johnny.”

“If you ever call me that again, I’ll assign you sixteen problems on Goranski’s formula.”

She squints at the board again. “What  _ is  _ Goranski’s formula?”

“Uh…” Jonathan looks up from whatever he’s writing. “I don’t know. It’s right there, hon.” He does that sometimes, calls her little names that are meant to be teasing and make her pout from offence, which only half works- she’s usually pouting because she wants him to say it again.

“I meant what does it mean. I can read the board.”

“I can’t,” Jonathan mumbles, going back to his notebook.

Nancy huffs. “You can’t read at all,” she retorts, slumping down in her seat with her arms crossed. Jonathan pauses again. He looks offended.

“You don’t have to be so mean about it.” The pout in his voice is pretty clearly false, though, so Nancy just blows a kiss. He wrinkles his nose and writes something else. She kicks him again. He doesn’t look at her.

She kicks him again. And then another time. “Jonathan,” she hisses. “Jonathan.  _ Jonathan.”  _ Her voice arches up a little louder. He just keeps on writing, smiling at his paper. “Hey, J-”

“Can you shut up?” Macy exclaims, twisting halfway around in her seat. The room goes silent, Mr Reinfield slowly turning to survey them. Nancy stares at Macy with a blank face. Jonathan is still writing.

Mr Reinfield clears his throat. “Is everything okay over there?” Nancy continues staring at Macy. Mentally, she’s rolling the dice on an intimidation check.

Macy turns around. “Nothing, Mr Reinfield,” she answers, staring at her desk.

“Nat 20,” Nancy whispers to herself. Jonathan chokes on a laugh next to her, and Mr Reinfield turns around again to glare at them. “Sorry.” He narrows his eyes a little further. “It wasn’t even me,” she protests.

He shifts his glare to Jonathan. Jonathan glances up to meet it for maybe half a second before continuing whatever he was working on. “Should I assume that’s classwork?” Mr Reinfield asks, already sounding resigned.

“Uh…” Jonathan pauses. He contemplates his paper for a moment, tilting his head. “Yeah. Yeah, I think you should assume that.”

“Should I  _ check  _ that?”

“Please don’t,” Jonathan replies, so frankly that Nancy has to bite back a choked laugh of her own.

Mr Reinfield pinches his nose. “Jonathan, you’re supposed to say  _ yes,”  _ he reminds him, sounding exhausted. Jonathan hums and goes back to his writing. “I…” he sighs, evidently giving up, and turns back to the board. “As we can see-” There’s a sudden crash that has him whipping around, and everyone’s heads shoot over towards Tyler Fallbank, who’s staring at his water bottle on the floor. “Tyler!”

“I didn’t even touch it!” Tyler exclaims.

“Then why is it on the floor?”

“Uh-” he stares at it some more. “Gravity?” he tries weakly. Mr Reinfield looks unimpressed. “It just fell. I swear,” Tyler insists again.

Mr Reinfield shakes his head. “Alright, fine. Just… pick it up.”

Tyler gets up, but pauses. “Are there towels anywhere?” he asks sheepishly, staring down at his bottle on the floor. It was in a puddle of water that was slowly, steadily growing.

"Wh- it's sealed," Mr Reinfield points out.

"Yeah, but the floor's all wet."

"How? It's sealed."

Tyler stares at the floor again. "I don't know."

Nancy tosses Jonathan a look, and he scribbles something on the edge of her paper, and she bites her lip to keep from laughing and getting Mr Reinfield’s glare on her again. Tyler passes by their desks- almost slips on a highlighter that rolls underfoot, and there’s several stifled snickers all around the room- to grab the towels. It’s a very boring few minutes until the floor is wiped up. Nancy can feel Jonathan fidgeting next to her as Tyler crosses the room again to throw the towels away. “He’s so slow,” he murmurs, his voice edging towards a whine.

She pats his leg under the table. “Not everyone’s as fast as you, dear,” she murmurs back, just as quietly. He rolls his eyes at her.

Tyler almost knocks his water bottle off his desk as he sits down, but it teeters back into place at the last moment. Jonathan’s fist unclenches on the tabletop. “What a dumbass.”

“Be nice.”

“I _am_ being- did you see that? That was so nice.”

She squeezes his knee, just because she can, just because it pulls that little smile onto his face. “Shush.” He wrinkles his nose at her. He’s still smiling, though.

And then, of course, Macy’s pencil case spills, and Jenna’s shoe gets kicked across the room, and Rory’s chair tips too far back and sends him crashing to the ground, and Nancy is beginning to get the little angsty feeling that something is a little wrong, so she squeezes Jonathan’s knee again and says, “I love you,” as quietly as she can. He hears her, maybe. He gives her a little smile, at the very least, and that’s more than good enough for her. Jonathan’s smile has always been more than good enough for her.

Tyler drops his water bottle again. It doesn’t spill this time, though.

"Okay! Done now!" Mr Reinfield turns back to the board. "So Goranski-" Nancy lets out a loud yelp, and he squeezes his eyes shut, looking pained.  _ "Nancy." _

"Sorry," she says. "Haha. I... kicked the floor."

"She's lying, your honor," Jonathan intones flatly. Nancy gives him a betrayed look. "Shut  _ up, _ your feet can't even touch the floor-"

The bell rings. Nancy is pretty sure she’s not imagining the look of relief that flashes over Jonathan’s face as he jumps to his feet. She takes a moment to scribble down the homework and then follows him out, shoving past Macy at the door. “Hey, you okay?”

Jonathan doesn’t look over at her. “Yeah, Nance. I’m okay.” He pauses at his locker. “I’m gonna be in the dark room at lunch. See you tonight?”

It’s a way to dodge, she knows that, because nothing he’s in any rush to develop is going to be in the school dark room, but she nods anyway. She won’t push him for an answer he doesn’t want to give. He’ll just fold up until himself, all drawn and pinched, like a damn flytrap, and she'll be stuck staring, wondering if it’s worth being swallowed to get an answer. So she just says, “See you tonight, Jonathan,” and wonders if he’s lying about that, too.

.

.

He’s not, as it turns out; she’d been losing hope, since he’d dropped Will off around four and picked him up around seven and not said anything to her either time, but at half past nine, her window slides open, and a face peers over the sill. “Got room for one more?” he asks, his voice a little hushed.

Nancy rolls her eyes. “Oh, get in before a neighbor sees you,” she replies. Jonathan grins, heaving himself through and dusting his hands on his jeans.

He looks tired. He looks tired more and more often nowadays, but it’s painfully clear just now, painted all over him like a mask. He’s so tired it’s hurting her. His eyes are hollow and dark and they  _ hurt,  _ because Nancy isn’t sure she can soothe that kind of pain, the kind that’s cracking across his soul. She wants to tell him it’s okay. She wants to hold his face in her hands and wipe the shadows from under his eyes. She wants to pull him close and kiss his temple and tell him she won’t let go. Instead, she says, “I missed you,” and hopes that’s enough.

Jonathan kicks off his shoes beneath the window and wanders over to her bed, throwing himself onto it. “Missed you too, Nance,” he says. Even his voice is worn. She bites her lip, regarding him carefully.

“Here.” He blinks up at her, confused, when she takes a seat at the edge of the bed, but allows her to cup his face gently. “Can you trust me for just a minute?” she asks. He doesn’t hesitate to nod, and her heart warms. Of course he trusts her. God, but Jonathan always trusts her. It’s her one constant. She slips her hands down to rest on his shoulders, rubbing gently, before she tugs at his jacket. Jonathan makes a befuddled noise, but he helps her pull it off of him. She stays there, rubbing at his arms, for just a second before she stands. “Stay,” she says sternly, pointing at him. Jonathan rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t move, so Nancy nods in satisfaction and crosses to her dresser. She has an old t-shirt she got from something some years ago, one that’s big enough for the sleeves to reach her elbows, and she digs it out before she returns to him.

Jonathan eyes the t-shirt. “What the hell are you up to?” he murmurs.

Nancy shushes him. He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t stop her at tugging from the hem of his shirt. And if her fingers trail over his bare chest for a moment longer than needed- well, that’s her business, isn’t it? It’s not as though he’s complaining. She lets him pull on the shirt. “I won’t be able to talk you out of your jeans, will I?”

He smiles sleepily up at her. “Definitely not.”

“Well, I tried.” She smooths his hair back from his forehead and barely restrains herself from pressing a kiss there. “As long as you’re comfortable.”

“Of course,” he says softly, honestly, his eyes gentle on her face. “I’m with you.”

Nancy hums, ignoring the way her heart melts in her chest, and scratches her nails lightly over his scalp. “Mm. You gonna take a nap?” she asks. Jonathan shrugs. “You look tired.”

“‘S late.”

“It’s-” she glances at the clock- “9:42.”

“Late.” He loops an arm around her waist as well he can at this angle. “Lay down?”

And she shouldn’t, because it’s Jonathan, because she’d do anything to lay close to him any moment she possibly can, because she loves him, loves him,  _ loves him-  _ and that’s why she does, because it’s Jonathan, and she’s not sure she’s ever felt as safe as she does with him. She shoves him over a little and curls over his side, tangling their legs together.

It’s as instant as it always is. They were separate, and now they’re together; that low thrum in the back of her skull that always twinges without him, that echo of pain that makes its home in her body’s frequencies, melts away, curling into him. Jonathan lets out a sigh. She can feel some of his tension dissipate from his shoulders. “God,” he murmurs. His eyes are screwed shut. “My head-”

“I know.” She presses a kiss to his shoulder- she can get away with that when they’re like this, because it brings them closer, because it pulls a little more relief into his face. “Is it any better?”

He hums and tugs her more fully against him. It’s like a sunrise between their bodies, bleeding comfort like gold through both of them, bringing a brilliant relief. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s better.”

She waits a little longer to ask. Reaches up to play with his hair again. Buries her nose into his jaw. Lets him pull her closer, closer, closer, until she swears there’s only one heart in the two of them. It’s probably past ten now; she wonders in brief amusement what her mom would think if she found them like this. Nancy’s supposed to be doing her homework. It’s much nicer to lie here with Jonathan, though. “Jonathan,” she finally says, once his breathing stops hitching each time he inhales. It always hits him harder, the pain. She doesn’t know why. She wishes it didn’t. He hums in acknowledgement. “What’s wrong?” she asks, keeping her voice gentle, keeping her voice low. He doesn’t answer, but his grip on her does tighten. “Please,” Nancy whispers. “I’m worried about you.”

“You don’t need to be.” His voice is tight. “I’m fine. I just-” his voice breaks. “Fuck, Nance.” His fingers clench in her shirt, scraping at her back. “I think-” he sighs unsteadily. “I think something’s… going on. I don’t know  _ what,  _ I just- I think someone’s following me.”

That jolts her. “Following you? What do you mean?”

“Well, I sort of meant they were moving behind me-”

_ “Jonathan.” _

He takes a deep breath. “I don’t really know, okay? But I keep seeing this… this face. This woman. She came into work the other day, and was staring at me all weird, and I saw her at the diner, and I swear she was at the edge of the parking lot today, too. Maybe I’m just paranoid but-”

“What did she look like?” Nancy interrupts. Her whole body feels cold, her head is spinning- fuck. Fuck.

Jonathan wrinkles up his nose that way he does when he’s thinking, and it’s as cute as ever, and Nancy wishes she could breathe enough to appreciate it. “Uh- blonde, I think?” he says slowly. “Yeah. Blonde. And dressed kinda sharp, like some kinda-”

“Like some kind of government worker,” Nancy interrupts. Her voice is shaking.

Jonathan swallows. “Yeah.”

They stare at each other for a long moment before Nancy settles back down onto his chest. The room is silent aside from the spinning fan and their breathing and his heartbeat, their heartbeat, thudding in her ear. Jonathan’s hand shakes as he trails his fingers down her spine, and she feels a sudden surge of possessiveness so strong that her bones nearly crumple under it; she’s burning beneath the skin with it, scalding her own body from the inside out. “They’re not going to get with it,” she says abruptly. “Whatever it is.”

“Nance-”

“No.” Her throat is tight, her body is trembling, but she is steady, certain, at her core. “No. They’re not going to get away with it. They can’t hurt you. They can’t take you away from me, they can’t-”

Jonathan rolls them over. “Nance.” All her breath goes out of her, having his eyes staring down at her like this. He’s leaning on his elbows, looking at her like she’s the only thing worth looking at, looking at her like the world’s come shrinking down into her eyes, and she just clutches onto him as tight as she can, because maybe it has right now. “It’s gonna be okay,” he whispers. “We’re gonna be  _ okay.” _

“I don’t  _ wanna  _ be okay,” Nancy protests. “I wanna be  _ happy.” _

“I know.” The same exhaustion is back in his eyes, in his veins, seeping out of him like tainted blood. “We’re gonna get there, Nance, I promise. I’m gonna get you there. Just trust me, okay?”

And she does. She trusts him more than anyone in the world, because he’s fucking  _ part _ of her, and she’d have to stop trusting everything before she stopped trusting him. “Okay.” She breathes out deeply. Tries to breathe all the simmering anger in her gut out with the air. “We’re gonna get there,” she repeats.

“Whatever it takes,” Jonathan replies, and kisses her forehead.

Whatever it takes.

They both hate that.

.

.

Her name is Anika LeRoy. Nancy finds this out in the worst possible way, halfway down the road home after studying with Barb. Nancy finds this out because Anika LeRoy yanks her into the woods. Because Anika LeRoy holds at gunpoint and warns her not to scream.

“Just come with me,” Anika says, her voice soothing, her smile wide. Her finger twitches on the trigger. “It’s alright, Nancy. Just come with me.”

“How do you know my name?” Nancy demands. Her mind is racing, running through the alternate possibilities. Maybe Anika doesn’t know much. Maybe-

But Anika says, “I know everything about you, Nancy,” and- fuck. She’s running out of time, isn’t she?

Nancy makes eye contact with her and wills her hands to stop shaking. “You don’t know everything,” she replies quietly. Swallows hard. “But you’re about to.”

Whatever it takes.

Yeah.

She thinks of Jonathan, thinks of his eyes staring down at her, and does what she fucking has to.

.

.

Steve’s not really sure why he has to come to this. It’s not like he ever even met the woman. But she was his dad’s coworker, and Harrington Sr has this thing about respect- ironic, considering he’s never respected anyone in his life, as far as Steve can tell- so he’s gotten dragged along to this stupid funeral. He shifts his weight, sighing, and lets his eyes trail over the crowd. It’s an open ceremony, just her coworkers crammed in the Hawkins cemetery, the preacher intoning something meaningless by the open grave. Nobody’s crying. That’s a little sad, maybe, but Steve would rather die himself than become emotionally invested in the whole thing.

Is that awful? He can’t be fucked to care.

His eyes linger on the edge of the crowd; there’s a couple there, tucked into one another, her head nestled against his shoulder. He knows them. They’re a year behind him in school. They’re not a  _ couple  _ couple- at least, he doesn’t think so- but they’re always close, always exchanging dry little glances or whispers in class. He likes to pretend he doesn’t know anything about them. He doesn’t want to know anything about them.

Jonathan meets his eyes across the crowd and Steve’s back stiffens on instinct. His eyes look gold in the low light of evening, shining like the setting sun, and Steve’s sort of basking in it without meaning to. He swallows hard. Pulls his hand out of his pocket to give a little wave. Jonathan pauses, his eyes scanning intensely over Steve’s face, before he waves back. Steve’s heart skips a beat.

But then Nancy tugs at Jonathan’s wrists and whispers something at him, and Jonathan’s attention immediately falls onto her, his face open and utterly enthralled by what she’s saying. His lip catches beneath his teeth, like he’s trying not to laugh. The two of them together, pressed into each other’s sides like pieces of a puzzle, fitting so fucking perfectly- it’s like they’re glowing. It takes Steve’s breath away.

So yeah, that’s why he likes to pretend he doesn’t know anything about them.

Jonathan’s not even queer, anyway, so there’s point in fantasising. Steve knows that. It doesn’t stop him, but he is aware. Sort of. What’s the harm in fantasising a little, right?

Jonathan murmurs something, and Nancy glances over at Steve, and- well. Nancy Wheeler doesn’t fascinate him the way Jonathan Byers does, but she  _ is  _ beautiful and she  _ does  _ sort of take his breath away when she’s meeting his eyes in the low of a November evening, wearing a black dress that strikes a harmony with her pale skin, with her black gloves (and what is she, some kind of TV duchess?) and her long black lashes and her pretty pink lips parting slightly, and- well. Maybe he has a few fantasies about Nancy Wheeler. But it’s nothing he bothers to think about.

He breaks their eye contact first, looking back at the preacher. His mother takes a sip from the flask hidden under her coat, and he’s tempted to ask her to share. He doesn’t, of course- she’d say no in a heartbeat. But he is tempted. Maybe he’ll go by Carol’s later. Swipe something from her parents’ perpetually unlocked liquor cabinet. Her mother is a fan of flavored vodka. Peach sounds nice.

He has the sudden, incomprehensible thought that he would like to shoot peach vodka with Jonathan Byers. He pushes that down, though, because that’s a little too gay for five in the evening. Also, this is a funeral.

“How’d she die?” he murmurs to his mother, because he can’t for the life of him remember. Probably because he doesn’t care, but it’s probably more courteous to know when he’s watching her coffin be lowered into the ground.

His mother sighs. “Oh, I don’t know,” she replies, which is incredibly unhelpful, but feels quite fitting overall. “Dale?”

His father glances over at them. “God, you think I remember?”

“Well, I was just wondering,” she says, somewhat snappishly, and Steve rolls his eyes, giving up as they devolve into a whispered bickering. Arguing about the death of the woman whose funeral they’re attending. How fitting.

When he glances up, Nancy Wheeler is staring at him again. He tries for a smile, one that’s weak and maybe on the edge of exhausted, and she lights up in a grin so bright that he blinks in surprise. Nancy’s hand taps at Jonathan’s hip in a frenzy, making him glance over. Nancy looks up at something, saying something, and Steve is partially distracted by the marble curve of her throat for just a moment before Jonathan’s gaze is on him again and he can’t look at anything else.

They really are captivating, aren’t they?

Nancy’s eyes slip back onto him, and the combined force of their eyes on him, tracing him over, taking him in, is almost too much to handle. Steve’s not sure what it is they’re looking for, but he finds himself nonsensically hoping they find it. He squares his shoulders, cocks his head, breathes out a clouded breath, and prays that it’s enough for them. He’s not sure why it matters to him, because it’s just Nancy and Jonathan, but for just a moment, Nancy and Jonathan matter more than anything in the world. It’s almost invigorating, the feeling of judgement. It makes his heart leap into his throat as Jonathan leans down to whisper in Nancy’s ear, keeping his eyes trained on Steve the whole time.

Nancy grins at him again, and his smile is a little stronger in return this time.

“Oh!” his mother exclaims quietly. “Oh, Steven, I remember.”

He turns back to her somewhat regretfully. “Hm?”

“She shot herself. Terribly tragic, isn’t it? Right through the head.” She sighs. “Breaks my heart.”

_ Not enough to make you care,  _ Steve thinks wryly, but he just hums in acknowledgement. “Oh. Sad.”

“Is it?”

“Dunno. Never met her. Did you?”

She scoffs. “Oh, I’ve never met any of your father’s coworkers, honey.” Which is true, probably. Steve’s never met any of them either. His father prefers to keep his home and work lives separate- or more accurately, his father prefers to keep to his work life and leave his home life dangling in the balance. It’s probably pretty terrible parenting. His dad’s a bit of dick, though, so Steve prefers things this way.

Maybe he’s being a terrible son thinking that. It’d be nice if he gave a fuck. He doesn’t, though.

He shrugs his coat further over his shoulders and kicks at the ground. When he glances over again, Nancy and Jonathan have been drawn back into their hushed conversation.

Something dark spreads in his gut. There's no room for him in Jonathan Byers's sunrise; he's in a different orbit, a different pattern, too off sync to make impact. God, what he'd give to give Jonathan even a fraction of what's burning in his throat. But Nancy Wheeler is the one glowing gold, so Steve stands apart and wants. Oh, how he  _ wants. _

Woah, now. That's a little gay, Steven.

The feeling of burning shadow hasn't faded by the time the goddamned funeral finally ends. Steve is trudging about sort of lazily, exchanging short words with the few people he's met before- which is maybe three, if he counts the woman that called him "a little short" at the Christmas party last year, so it doesn't take long. He's kicking at the ground again when he hears, "Just what are you doing, boy?" from a ways off and his head snaps up. Some guy's got Nancy and Jonathan cornered up against a tree. Steve is moving before he even thinks, the shadow fading into some kind of anger.

Jonathan clears his throat. "We're, uh-" he licks his lips. "We're in mourning."

"Definitely mourning. This isn't funny at all," Nancy adds.

Steve grabs the guy's shoulder as he bristles again, clearly about to snap at them again. "Hey. What's this about?"

The guy glances over at him. "'Scuse me?"

"I said," Steve repeats, his voice tight, "What the hell's this about?" The guy opens his mouth, but he cuts him off. "Never mind. I don't care." He shoves him. "Get out of here. A woman died, asshole. Don't you have anything better to do than terrorise some teenagers?"

The guy scoffs and stalks off, but not without glaring at Nancy and Jonathan one more time. Steve rolls his eyes and starts to turn, but a hand catches his wrist. "Steve?"

He turns. "Hm?"

Nancy looks up at him with a little smile, and Steve can't feel scalded inside, not even when he sees her other hand is tangled into Jonathan's. "Thank you," she says. He's never heard someone sound so honest, he doesn't think.

"Of course," he says. "I'm not gonna stand by and let some asshole get away with that."

Nancy's eyes stay on his a moment longer. He feels a little more seen than he's felt in a long time. Than he's felt in his life, maybe. "Thank you," she says again. Steve's throat feels oddly tight. Her fingers uncoil slowly. "We've probably got to be off. But good night, Steve."

"Good night," he echoes. Jonathan knocks the back of his hand against Steve's shoulder. It means something, Steve thinks, but he's not sure what. He's not sure what a lot of things Jonathan does are meant to mean. Doesn't stop his shoulder from burning under the touch. "Jonathan," he says, before he can help himself, reaching out slightly.

Jonathan pauses as he's turning away, glancing back at him. "Yes?"

Steve loses his mind for a second, because Jonathan is staring at him, and he's never sure what to do when he's got Jonathan staring at him. "Uh-"  _ You're beautiful,  _ he wants to say, but he's not a fucking idiot, so instead he says, "I like your shirt."

So maybe he is a fucking idiot.

Oh god, he's a fucking idiot.

Jonathan blinks. For a moment, Steve freezes up, afraid he's given himself away- but then the ghost of a smile crosses Jonathan's face, and he reaches out, grasping Steve's hand. Steve's breath stutters in his chest. "Thanks." The softness of his voice warms the winter wind. "That suit looks good on you," he adds, his eyes flicking up and down Steve's frame.

Steve laughs a little, because he doesn't know what else to do. "Uh."

Nancy snickers and tries to cover it as a cough, but Steve stiffens anyway. Jonathan rolls his eyes, something like a fond smile crossing his face. He squeezes Steve's hand once before letting go. "See you around, Harrington."

"Uh, yeah," Steve says. His voice is a little dazed, he thinks, but he can't help it. "See you around, Harrington."

Jonathan smiles at him again before he leaves, and Steve thinks hazedly that maybe he believes in heaven after all.

God, he's so fucked.

.

.

"Okay," Nancy says, leaning back in her seat. "Obviously, this isn't funny."

"Obviously."

She taps her fingers on the desk. "...It is kind of satisfying, though," she admits. "Is that terrible?"

Jonathan rolls over onto his side, regarding her carefully. Nancy doesn't meet his eyes. It's a little hard right now. There's still blood under her nails.

"No," he finally answers. "I don't think so."

"Okay," she says. Her voice is faint, though. Even she doesn't believe herself.

Jonathan sighs, opening his arms up. "Come here, Nance," he murmurs, and she goes easily, collapsing into his arms. His fingers tangle up in her hair. "It's going to be okay. We're going to be okay." A kiss is pressed to the top of her head. "I've got you, haven't I?"

Nancy laughs into his shoulder. "I love you," she says, and he kisses her head again.

"I love you too."

"I love you more."

"I love- wait, no. No, we're not doing this."

Nancy sighs. "But I wanna hear how much you love me," she complains, kicking at his ankle. "Say how much you love me."

Jonathan laughs quietly. "I love you like the sunrise," he answers, and her breath hitches. "I love you like the sea. I love you like the wind in your hair, when it gets everywhere and gets stuck in your lip gloss. I love you like fireworks on the fourth of July." He cups her face carefully. Runs a thumb over her cheek. "God, Nance," he whispers, almost reverent, and she knows he can see the adoration in her eyes. "I love you like the morning," he continues. Her eyes sting with tears. "I love you like- fuck, are you crying?" His face crumbles. "Shit. Sorry, I-"

"No, no, my God, Jonathan-" she laughs wetly. "God, no, I just-" she lets out a long, shaky breath. "I love you so much."

His face lights up with a grin. "I love you too."

"I'd picked up on that."

"Okay, nevermind." She gasps in offence, and he kisses her nose. Her mind goes a little blank for a moment. "Mm. You think we're soulmates?"

Nancy blinks. "What?"

"Not like that," he's quick to amend, because Jonathan is always quick to break her heart, "But, I mean…" his thumb rubs at her cheek again. "You know. You're part of me. Literally. Do you think it was meant that way? Do you think it's all like this for a reason?"

"I don't know," she replies. "Maybe. Maybe we’re just lucky.”

The silence is heavy between them. “Do you really think it’s luck?”

Nancy thinks about the blood under her fingernails. Thinks about the tug in her stomach as Anika LeRoy raised the gun to her head. Thinks about the crack of the bullet leaving the chamber. “I wouldn’t have chosen it,” she answers slowly. “But I don’t think I’d be half the person I am if I weren’t half of you.”

Jonathan’s quiet for a minute. “Go to sleep, Nance,” he finally says. His arm curls around her a little tighter. “I’ve got you.”

And that, at least- that will never change.

.

.

That night, Steve’s father takes a call. Steve is hovering in the hallway outside. He catches a brief bit of it, catches, “-divergent neurological function-” and “-Goranski’s-” but he hasn’t got a clue what either of those mean, so he gives up. He’s never understood his father’s business dealings. He doesn’t care to, really.

He’s about to step away when he hears, “that Byers boy,” and freezes in his tracks. “Yes,” his father says after a pause. “That’s the one. Him and that girl. What’s her name?”

_ Nancy,  _ Steve thinks numbly.

“Yes. They were there today. At Anika’s funeral.” Another pause. “Yes, very tragic. Now, about the children. I’ve been looking at the scans from the remote readers-”

Steve stands outside the door for a little longer, but his ears are buzzing too loudly for him to make anything else out, so he shoves his hands in his pockets and heads up to his room. What’s his father’s business want with Nancy and Jonathan? Why’s it matter if they were at Anika’s funeral or not? He flops backwards onto his bed to scowl at the ceiling.

Why’s  _ he  _ care?

Well. That’s a bit obvious, isn’t it?

He huffs, scowling a bit more. Damn boys. Making everything more stressful with their hazel eyes and their messy brown hair and their tendency of ducking their head in the hallway and their long fingers and their quick, rapid way of speaking, like if they get their words out quickly enough, nobody will notice what they’re saying, even though Steve always, always notices-  _ damn  _ Jonathan Byers. Damn Nancy Wheeler too, while he’s at it, because no one should be able to pull off black gloves nowadays. It’s the 80s, not the medieval times. Nobody wears little fitted gloves nowadays.

They had looked very nice on her, though. She’d almost looked like she really was mourning.

He almost wonders why they were laughing at a funeral, but he thinks maybe it’s better to leave things un-wondered. Is that a word? Maybe not. He can wonder about that instead.

“Hey, Jonathan,” he says to his own ceiling, his voice a bit tart. “Fuck you. You’re not even that pretty.”

.

.

Nancy traces her fingers down Jonathan’s face. He’s sleeping, because of course he fell asleep before her after telling her to get some rest. He always falls asleep first. He’s always so tired, though.

“Yes, he is,” she murmurs, and kisses his forehead. “Don’t worry, Jon. You’re the prettiest person I know.”

.

.

Steve almost glances around, but it’s only his mind playing tricks on him, anyway. He rolls his eyes. “Fuck you too, Nancy,” he adds. “I don’t even think about you. You’re not even hot. And your gloves looked tacky.”

His mother knocks at the door. “Hey, Steven? Shut up,” she calls. His eyes roll back in his head.

.

.

Nancy frowns. “I’m hot as  _ fuck,”  _ she says. It’s a little too loud, apparently, because Jonathan stirs.

“Fuck yeah you are,” he mumbles sleepily.

“Aw. Thanks, babe.”

“Don’t call me that.”

She laughs a little. “Mm. Okay.” She frowns, the offence from a moment ago returning. “Hey, Jon? Do you think my gloves are tacky?”

He cracks one eye open. “No, babe, they’re lovely. Now go the fuck to sleep.”

“Now hang on just a moment-”

.

.

Okay. That’s a little weird.

Steve squints at the ceiling a little harder. “Yeah, Nancy,” he tries, and if his voice is shaking a little, that’s his business. “Go the fuck to sleep.”

He can hear her laugh in his ears. He should probably be a little more concerned that he’s evidently losing his mind, but it’s nice to have his room feeling a little less empty, so he just listens to her say, “Good night, Steve,” and pretends he can’t hear his father yelling into the phone downstairs.

.

.

Over the next few days, it gets worse. It’s not really terrible in any sense- Nancy does have a very nice voice, after all, and it fits like music into the flow of his thoughts. He’s not sure why he’s hearing it, though, and that’s beginning to stress him out, especially since Nancy herself hasn’t treated him any differently. It’s not as if he really thought it was anything but his mind cracking apart, not if he thought about it, but still- he doesn’t really want to be crazy. He’d like something real for once in his goddamn life.

However, the Nancy voice in his head is very good at math, and he passes his algebra quiz with a 95- that’s higher than he’s gotten all year. Fuck yeah. His teacher gives him a suspicious look and reminds the class that cheating on any assessment will void your grade, but it’s not cheating if it’s his own head, right? Just because the voice in his head is good at algebra doesn’t mean he’s cheating. It just means he’s… multifacist.

_ I think you mean multi-faceted. _

She’s good at English, too! She really does have it all.

She’s also very pretty.

_ Aw, thank you. You’re pretty too, Steve. _

See, that part’s a bit odd. She’s very nice to him. Much nicer than Steve normally is to himself. It’s probably just his general desperation to be loved causing issues again- what’s new, really- but it’s a bit overwhelming. He flushed full pink when she called him  _ “actually kind of hot”  _ last night. Bit embarrassing, getting flustered by a voice in his head.

Except.

“Hey, babe,” he hears behind him one day, and jolts so badly he almost drops his books. The hallway is empty aside from him.

Aside from him and Nancy, that is. “Are you talking to me?” he asks.

She shrugs, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “Am I ever?” She pauses. “I mean, who am I to you, Stevie? Just your classmate? Just the voice in your head?”

His heart is pounding in his ears. “I-” he staggers backwards, clutching his notebook to his chest. “You’re not real,” he says. Whispers, more like. “You’re not real. You’re not.”

_ I am,  _ she says inside his head.  _ Or maybe I’m not. Does it matter, Stevie? _

“Of course it matters.”

“Does it?” she asks again. “Or does it just matter to you?”

He swallows hard. “You’re not real,” he insists.

Nancy takes a few quick steps forward, until his back is up against the lockers. “Steve,” she says softly, and then reaches out, her fingers trailing over his arm. “I’m not trying to scare you.”  _ I just want you to believe me. _

“Why are you doing this?” he whispers. His throat is tight.

_ Because I think I trust you.  _ Her hand falls away.  _ And I think I need your help.  _ “It’s okay to say no.”

Steve licks his lips. Thinks about a few nights ago, when her voice in his head was the only thing keeping him sane in his cold empty room all by himself. Thinks about his algebra test, how he got done easier than he’s ever done any algebra in his life. Thinks about just now, when she touched him so gently, when she touched him like something worth being gentle with.

Her eyes get a little sad. “Stevie,” she murmurs. “You  _ are  _ worth being gentle with.”

“Can you read my mind?”

“I’ve been talking to you telepathically for a week.”

“Right. Yeah. Okay. That’s a good point.”

_ I have a lot of those. _

Steve laughs a bit, half-breathless, before he can help himself. “Someone’s full of herself, huh?” Nancy pouts a little. It’s kind of cute. “Do not comment on that,” he says warningly, and the gleam in her eyes fades away.

She fidgets a little. “...Is it true, though?” she asks, and it’s maybe kind of shy, and Steve maybe takes a moment to process it, because his brain is maybe kind of blank.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it’s true.”

“Oh.” She smiles, looking pleased. “Thank you.”

“Mhm.”

There’s a moment of silence between them. Well, there’s a moment of Steve being silent, and Nancy growing steadily pinker in front of him, because he can’t stop thinking about how cute she is, and he can’t stop thinking about how much he wants to tuck that piece of hair behind her ear, and he can’t stop thinking about how she knows he wants to so she knows that piece of hair is in her face and she’s not tucking it away so does that mean she wants him to, or-

She bites her lip a little. He takes that as a yes.

His fingers linger on her cheek for a moment, and he says, “Yeah,” before he even really realises what he’s talking about.

Apparently she doesn’t know either, because she blinks, looking confused. “Huh?”

“Yeah,” he says again. “I’ll help you.”

“That’s very kind.”

He rubs at her cheek with his thumb. She likes when Jonathan does that. He assumes. The Nancy in his head does, and apparently the Nancy in his head is the Nancy right in front of him, and it feels sort of nice anyways, and she’s leaning into it, so why is he bothering to think all this in the first place? “Well. I think you deserve kindness.”

Her smile is soft. “So do you,” she replies.

It’s sweet.

And that moment right there? It’s the best worst mistake of his life.


	2. my dear athena

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her voice is faint. “I love you. More than anything.” There’s something in her voice that’s more vulnerable than just the affection they exchange every day.
> 
> Jonathan pretends to be asleep.  
> -  
> or; Tommy has a plan, Jonathan has a problem, and Steve is stuck in between.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *points* see i can do things
> 
> sorry this took twenty years i'm doing my best i swear

“So,” Steve says. He takes another sip of Coke and tries to swallow Tommy’s words along with it. “So you’re telling me you’re serious?” Tommy sighs heavily, looking ready to start the whole story over, but Steve puts up a hand to stop the flood before it can start. “You do know we’re eighteen, right?”

“You’re eighteen,” Tommy corrects. “My birthday’s next week.”

“Jesus, Tom, you think I don’t know that? That’s not the-” he pinches his nose, shaking his head. “Okay. Let’s just take this one step at a time.”

Tommy twists his fingers together, eyes heavy on Steve’s, his lip caught between his teeth. Steve hates seeing him like this. It’s not common. Tommy’s not exactly the emotional type. When it comes around, though, it comes in lips chewed raw and eyes darting every which way, in fingers with bitten nails twisting together until circulation cuts off. “I wouldn’t have come to you,” Tommy says, his voice low. “But I just-”

Steve waves his hand in the air to cut him off. “Tom. I’m your best friend, okay? You can always come to me.” He doesn’t like the twist of Tommy’s lip at that, but he pushes that aside for another time. He can deal with it later. “I just…” he sighs. “This is crazy, man.”

“Yeah, well, what fucking choice do I have?” Tommy snaps. “You don’t-” he presses his lips together tightly. There’s blood beading from the flaking skin. Steve tries not to flinch as it smears over onto Tommy’s chin. “It’s not the same for us, okay?” he says. “I know your dad’s shitty, but-”

Steve reaches out. Squeezes his knee and tries to ignore how he flinches. “I said you can come to me, didn’t I?” Tommy smiles tightly. “Just… just give me a sec.”

Tommy’s dad isn’t really something they talk about. Steve knows it was shitty, knows it was nasty, knows it ripped their lives apart. Steve doesn’t know the hell it was though, just knows it happened when they were ten and pulled Tommy right in half. Pulled Tommy halfway into that grave along with his father and left the other part teetering on the edge, only halfway up. Hanging on. Hanging onto  _ Steve,  _ mostly, though it took him a few years to realise it. It was hard to hold onto someone that didn’t seem to want to tell you they even cared if you did or not.

Still, he knows it’s harder for Tommy. Knows he lies in bed listening to his mom and brother fight every night. Knows he drinks for it, smokes for it, fights for it. Knows he wants more than anything to get out of it.

But this- “You have the money,” he says, his voice dragging a little with reluctance. “And you’ve got a place to go.” His uncle’s place in Cincinnati. It’ll be good for him. Tommy’s always itched for a city. “You’ve called him?”

Tommy nods. “Said to let me know when. Got an open room for me.” Steve stares down at the map, at the cash, at the bus ticket that’ll take away the only friend he’s ever depended on. He takes another sip of his Coke. “Steve.”

“Hm?” He glances up. Tommy’s eyes are dark, fixed on his in the early morning light. A little too wide. A little too deep. A little too crazy. Tommy goes a little crazy sometimes. It makes Steve’s pulse run panicked.

“I need to get out of here,” Tommy says softly.

Steve smiles tersely. “I know, Tom. God, I know, I just-” he sighs. “Can’t you come stay with me? Just until graduation, and then we’ll get out of here. We’ll ditch this place and everyone in it. Just…”  _ Just don’t leave me,  _ he wants to say, but he can’t get it out. Tommy’s eyes draw a little deeper into whatever sadness is festering in his skull. Steve swallows hard. “At least think about it,” he says. “Bus doesn’t leave till Friday, anyway.”

Tommy bites at his lip again. Blood smears on his teeth. Steve sips his Coke to keep from saying something. “Yeah,” he says, and then nods at the soda. “You want something stronger?”

Steve sets it aside gratefully. “God, I thought you’d never ask,” he sighed. Tommy snorted, hopping up off the couch. It creaks under the movement. “You want me to pack this back up?” he asks. Tommy gives him a silent nod, and Steve forces himself to return it with a smile. He fills the shoebox back up with Tommy’s ticket out of hell and tucks it under the sofa. It actually goes buried half under one of the rocks outside the trailer, but this’ll keep it out of sight if Julia or Mark gets home before they finish their drinks. “Where’s your brother at?” he asks. Julia’ll be out for a few days, always is, but Mark usually swings by once or twice a day to check in on Tom.

Tommy flops back down on the creaky old couch and passes Steve a glass of whiskey. “Stella’s. Toast?”

“To what?”

He shrugs. “Algebra?”

“You’re failing algebra,” Steve points out, but clinks his glass against Tommy’s anyway. Their glasses are mismatched. Carol picked them out at some pawn shop in Indianapolis a year or so ago- a box full of old glasses with delicate little carvings, looking like crystal. They’re dirty now. Everything’s dirty in the trailer. Tommy keeps them tucked away somewhere so that neither his mom or brother will sell them off, though, so they’ve still got almost all of them. Steve likes them. Steve likes everything that holds memories of them.

Memories of them and whiskey that burns going down. He tosses it back easy, leaning his head onto the back of the sofa with a sigh. Tommy glances over. Nudges their feet together. “Hey, you good?”

Steve hums. “Missed you.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“I haven’t left.”

Steve’s lips twitch downwards, and he sits up, grabbing the bottle off the table. “Yeah,” he replies. The whiskey sounds nice pouring into the glass. It’s a familiar sound, a familiar smell- his dad’s a whiskey man. “Yeah, you’ve been right here.” His voice is a shade darker than he meant for it to come out. Tommy flinches.

“Look, Stevie-”

Steve cuts him off. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Seriously. I get it.” He stares down at the glass, at the delicate little carvings that hold so many memories. Tommy’s eyes, heavy on Steve’s profile, are wide, his eyebrows wrinkled together. Steve licks his lips. Tosses back the drink. “I’ll see you in algebra.”

Tommy flinches again. “Steve, wait,” he tries, but his voice withers.

Steve leaves the glass on the table and leaves with his hands shoved in his pockets. The sun’s just rising. It’s nearing six, probably. Tommy had called early. Tommy always calls early. His sleep schedule is shit.

Steve kicks a rock. It goes rolling away across the dirt.

Rolling right away from him. Just like Tom.

“Fuck,” he says out loud, just to say it. Just to hear it. It fades off into nothing in the morning light. He says “fuck,” again, and then he says, “I’m sorry,” because his throat is stinging. “I’m sorry. I’m  _ sorry-” _

“It’s okay.”

He almost laughs, but he can’t quite muster it. “You’re up early,” he says instead. Jonathan bumps their shoulders together with a shy little smile. It kind of takes Steve’s breath away.

“Nance said you’re feeling shitty,” he says. His voice is as quiet as always- quiet and soft and a little sweet, nudging Steve’s heart into his throat. “Wanted me to check up on you.”

Steve kicks the ground again. “Well, I’m fine.” It’s bullshit, and he knows Jonathan knows that, but he doesn’t get called out on it. Just gets a shoulder bumped against his again and gentle brown eyes that trace over him and take him a little bit further apart. “You know, right?” he says abruptly. Jonathan blinks. Steve shoves his hands further into his pockets and scowls at the ground. “The… empathy,” he elaborates. “You know how I feel.”

Jonathan blinks again. “That’s… the general idea, yes,” he replies. His voice is careful.

Steve nods. “You know how I feel,” he repeats. He keeps staring at the ground, his eyes on the edge of burning. “You know how I feel about you.”

Jonathan bites his lip. That’s answer enough.

“Cool,” Steve says, his voice falsely cheerful. “Cool! Great!” He claps his hands together. “Let’s never talk about that again! How’d you sleep?”

“Steve-”

“How’d you sleep, Byers?” His voice is harsh, he knows, but he doesn’t want to talk about it. He can’t. God, not right now. Not when he’s shattering apart in a million different ways and it’s only six in the goddamn morning.

_ I get it. _

“I know,” he says out loud. He can hear her laugh. It’s oddly comforting. He thinks maybe Nancy Wheeler’s laugh can pull the thorns out of his heart.

Jonathan blinks, bewildered. “What?”

Steve cuts him a wry smile. “Nothing,” he says quietly. “Missed you.”

Jonathan’s smile breaks over his face like the sun over the horizon. “I know,” he replies. He slips their hands together. “I know how you feel, remember?” Steve swallows hard, half blinded by the sight of Jonathan Byers’s grin. He knits their fingers together and squeezes. The whiskey is buzzing in his ears. “I missed you too,” Jonathan adds, a little belated.

_ Why isn’t he that sweet to me? _

Steve laughs. Jonathan raises a brow at him, but he shakes his head in reply. “Nance is jealous,” he supplies. Jonathan’s cheeks tint with the pink of the sunrise. “Think she wants us to come say hi.”

Nancy’s voice is wry, even inside his mind.  _ Took you long enough to figure it out. Hurry the fuck up, Steven. _

Jonathan hums. “Well. There’s something I’ve been wondering about,” he says. Steve’s brows wrinkle with confusion. Jonathan slips an arm around his waist, pressing the two of them closer together, and Steve is so busy having a heart attack that he nearly doesn’t notice the way his vision snaps to black until it comes shuddering back.

“Oh my God!” Nancy whisper-shrieks, bolting straight up in bed. “I meant come in through the  _ window,  _ Jon, what did you  _ do  _ to him-”

“I didn’t do anything, he’s fine-”

“He’s not- Steve, are you okay? You look like you’re about to pass out.” She holds out her hands, beckoning with them. “Here, here. Let me check on you,” she orders.

Jonathan groans. “He’s  _ fine,  _ Nance.” Steve glances over at him with a smile, but by the time he’s turned his head, Jonathan is already on the other side of the room, hopping onto the bed next to Nancy. She sticks her tongue out at him. He returns it and then loops an arm around her waist to tug her in, just like he’d done to Steve. “Missed you,” he whispers into her hair.

“Mm. It’s been one night,” she replies. Her voice and eyes have gone soft with fondness, though, and Steve stares at her bedroom carpet to avoid feeling like an intruder. “Since when can you teleport other people?” he hears her ask. When he glances up, she’s halfway twisted so that she can coil an arm around his neck.

_ I was looking away for like, two seconds,  _ he thinks amusedly, and receives a gentle  _ fuck you  _ in reply. He snorts, sliding onto the edge of the bed.

Jonathan’s eyes flicker over to him. “I don’t think I can take  _ anyone,”  _ he replies. The earlier annoyance has drifted from his voice, replaced by the casual curiosity that Steve is coming to associate with him. Jonathan’s like a fox- he pokes his nose down every path he finds, always slipping into a new realm of exploration, constantly learning and hunting and thinking. He’s got to have something to fixate his curiosity on, or else he’ll lose his mind. It’s oddly endearing. “I think it might just be… you know. Friends.”

“Friends,” Steve echoes.

“Yeah.”

Jonathan’s gaze is almost wary, like he thinks Steve might reject him. Steve laughs, reaching over to clap his shoulder. “You know I’m not upset,” he reminds him. “You  _ know  _ that.”

Jonathan turns red. “Yeah, well,” he mumbles. Nancy is laughing quietly between them. “I forgot, okay?”

“You forgot?”

“Yes,” Jonathan says stubbornly. Steve raises an eyebrow. Jonathan lasts approximately four seconds before he caves. “Okay, fine, I’m just an idiot-”

“Aw,” Nancy coos, reaching up to cup his face. “You’re not just an idiot, baby. You’re a full fledged  _ moron.”  _ Jonathan makes an offended noise, but she just laughs again and drags him down, knocking their foreheads together. He relaxes instantly. That grin that only seems to appear here, tangled up in a mess of knees and elbows on Nancy’s bed, blooms over his face.

Steve is watching. He tries not to stare, but how can he keep from staring when they’re the most beautiful pair of people he’s ever seen? Separately, they’re captivating; Nancy is like an old Greek statue, with tumbling curls and solemn wide eyes and marble in her delicate hands. He caught sight of her the other day, getting out of Jonathan’s car before school, and in the moment when the sunlight caught her from behind and flooded her with gold, Steve was certain she came from Olympus. Jonathan had been so close beside her, the other side of the coin, his face turned into a silhouette and his shoulders hunching into themselves. He’s a ghost. He’s a piece of Nancy’s soul, and Steve’s soul, and Tommy’s soul, and everyone else in Hawkins, everyone else he’s met, everyone else whose emotions he’s taken into himself. He doesn’t hide because he doesn’t want to be seen; he hides because he doesn’t want to see them. He’s trapped, not domesticated. He’s the type of beast they have to keep in a cage. There’s a latent power under his skin that Steve swears he can  _ see,  _ beating in time with a thousand hearts, turning his face dark and his eyes gold. God, his eyes are gold. They’re both so beautiful, but here, right here, their skin pressed together and their pulses beating in time, they don’t need the sunlight to turn them golden. They do it all on their own. The ache of a life already lived fades from Jonathan’s face as Nancy’s marble hands turn to silk, and they fall into this tandem creation, one that glows and blooms and ensnares Steve’s eyes. This tangible love between them is strong, is wise, is eternal; the goddess Athena. Nancy her sword, Jonathan her shield, and Steve the casualty of war. They’re beautiful. God, they’re beautiful. Steve is watching, and he can’t look away.

Jonathan is the first to pull away. There’s an empty space between Nancy and Steve that he rolls into, sighing as his eyes close. “God,” he groans. “I have work today.”

“Aw, poor baby.” Nancy props herself up on one elbow, trailing a finger down his face with a mocking pout. “Maybe you shouldn’t have stayed up until four, then.” Jonathan sticks out his tongue.

Steve shakes his head, incredulous. “I’ll never get how you do it. If I get less than five hours at  _ least,  _ I’m miserable.”

Jonathan knocks the back of his hand against Steve’s hip. “It’s ‘cause that hair of yours needs its beauty sleep,” he informs him.

“What about the rest of me?”

“I said beauty.”

“Yeah, Steve,” Nancy chimes in. “Not even sleep can fix… that.” She waves her hand vaguely at his face.

Steve gapes at them. “Wh- I’m hot!” he protests. They’re both laughing, and he can feel a smile spreading over his face. “How dare you! I’m so pretty!” He shoves at Jonathan’s shoulder. Jonathan accidentally knocks into Nancy, who yelps, tumbling off the side of the bed. “Oops.”

She raises up slowly, fixing him with a glare. “You are  _ such  _ a bully, Steve Harrington,” she snaps. She’s got a twinkle in her eye that says she’s not really mad, though.

He smirks back. “And you are  _ such  _ fun to bully, Nancy Wheeler,” he replies. Her face almost jumps into a smile, but he can see her bite it back.

“And I am  _ so  _ tired of you guys,” Jonathan adds flatly.

A beat of silence.

Nancy and Steve look at each other. Jonathan glances between them. “Wait, no-” They both tackle him, ignoring his whispered shouts, the three of them falling into a mess of kicking legs and laughter on Nancy’s bed. “Goddammit.” He’s grinning.

Steve wants to kiss him. He doesn’t, of course, but he wants to.

_ Yeah. Me too. _

He squeezes Nancy’s hand in solidarity. “Thank you,” he says, suddenly overwhelmed with a feeling too soft to name.

“For what?”

Jonathan’s eyes are gold. “For letting me in here,” Steve replies. “For letting me be part of this. You two are- you’re- I mean, you’re two halves, you know? So thank you for letting me be here.”

Nancy squeezes his hand back. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she replies gently. “There’s no choice but to care about you.” Steve lets his head fall onto Jonathan’s shoulder. Someone’s hand rubs at his back.

“Thank you,” he says again. “We should let Johnny nap.”

_ “Please,”  _ Jonathan cuts in.

Nancy laughs and arranges herself more comfortably. “Okay, Jon. Go to sleep, then.” She kisses his forehead. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” Jonathan mumbles sleepily. His eyes are already closed. He’s comfortable, utterly at ease here with Nancy and Steve flooding warmth into him, their hands knit over his stomach. He’s got a soft smile on.

Steve is watching when Nancy follows Jonathan into sleep. He can’t look away.

.

.

“A whole day. We went a whole day,” Mr Reinfield says despairingly, staring at the mess on the floor. Jonathan winces. “Detention.”

The wince turns to disbelief. “Wh- that’s not fair!” Jonathan protests. “It’s, like, five books!”

“Six,” Nancy corrects from her desk.

Jonathan points at her. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Jonathan!”

He tries for an innocent smile. “I said… uh-” he glances to Nancy for help, his eyes pleading.

“Duck,” she supplies.

“I said duck.”

Mr Reinfield stares at him. “Okay. Detention.”

Jonathan drops back down into his seat with a scowl. “Fuck.”

“I’m going to report you.”

“Okay.”

“I’m-” he sighs, shaking his head. “Fine. I give up. I give up!” He heads back to his desk, dropping into his chair as the rest of the room fills up students. Jonathan goes back to his notebook. He’s chewing on his pen. Nancy knocks at his hand to try and make him stop, but he just snaps at her fingers, and that’s… that’s weird as fuck, how is she supposed to respond to that? Mr Reinfield clears his throat to get attention. “So! Since our test is Monday-” a series of groans fills the room. “Yeah, yeah, none of you are going to study over the weekend, I know, yada yada. The test is still on Monday. Study in first period, I don’t care. Today, we’re reviewing Goranski.”

“Goranski sucks,” Tyler says.

Mr Reinfield snaps, pointing at him. “Thank you, Tyler. Very good point. Now  _ why  _ does Goranski suck?”

Tyler looks vaguely uncomfortable. “Because… he confuses me?” he tries.

“If he does one thing well, it’s confusing people,” Mr Reinfield agrees. “Now, why do you think that is?”

Jonathan’s voice tickles at the back of Nancy’s mind, and she gives him a flat look before transcribing for his introverted comfort. “Because it’s an attempt to quantify a situation that doesn’t exist according to current science and therefore has no field practice to prove itself,” she says. Mr Reinfield gestures for her to continue. “The idea of an alternate reality is still barely taken seriously, and the idea of being able to open a doorway between our reality and that conceptual one is pretty much seen as preposterous. Goranski’s formula makes mathematical sense, but there’s no reason to ever use it.”

“That’s exactly right, Nancy.” Mr Reinfield leans his elbows on his desk, steepling his fingers. “And since that’s exactly right, then that raises a very important question. Can anyone guess what that question is?”

“Why do we use it?” Macy guesses.

“That’s right. And who wants to answer that?”

The room is quiet. The faint sound of Jonathan chewing on his pen becomes much more audible, and he slowly draws it out of his mouth, looking abashed. Mr Reinfield is still waiting. Nancy shoots Jonathan a look.  _ I’m not answering this one for you. _

_ I hate you.  _ His voice breaks the silence with all the smoothness of a knife, a confident cut right down the centre. It’s remarkable the way he can make people listen when he isn’t afraid to be heard. “Because it’s a possibility,” he says. “And we can’t learn anything if we don’t believe in possibilities.”

Mr Reinfield leans back in his seat. “That’s right. Thank you, Jonathan.” Jonathan gives a thumbs up. Nancy knocks it down with a roll of her eyes. “Now, this should be easy. What  _ is  _ Goranski’s formula?”

“E equals M divided by G plus k,” Macy answers.

“No,” Nancy says, leaning her chin in her hands. “It’s e equals M divided by G plus k, with k standing in for the gravitational reactant that serves to split the collision of energies instead of destroying the universe and everything in it.”

Mr Reinfield gestures. “And so…?”

“So it’s unknown,” she says. “Because without k, there is no solution.”

“Precisely. Thank you, Nancy.” Mr Reinfield spins his chair around towards the board, picking up the chalk. “Now-” Tyler’s water bottle falls off his desk. “Detention,” Mr Reinfield says without turning around.

Jonathan clears his throat. “Hey, if he has detention, does that mean that cancels out mine? Detention would suck today, I have, uh- a lot of homework. So."

Nancy snorts, doodling a heart in the corner of her paper. "Your homework and your work ethic are very different things," she mumbles.

Jonathan looks offended. "Ma'am, I can't read."

Mr Reinfield is just staring at them. “Jonathan,” he says. He sounds despairing. Jonathan raises his eyebrows, looking pleasantly interested. Mr Reinfield shakes his head. “Nevermind. You know what? Fine. Sure. Just… come in at the end of lunch tomorrow to reorganise the bookshelf, okay?”

_ Fuck yeah. _

_ Did you make him do that? _

Jonathan doesn’t answer.

Nancy’s gonna kill the son of a bitch.

.

.

When he was a kid, Jonathan wanted to paint his room pink. He didn’t, obviously- he didn’t even dare say it lest fucking Lonnie hear him. But at night, curled up in bed, listening to the sounds of yelling or crying or drunken singing through the door, he’d stare at the walls and wish they were pink. A pale shade, with darker trim. He’d found the paint samples down at the general store once (6852 and 6858; somewhat like a rose). Every other weekend, they’d go to the Wheelers’ at dinnertime because fucking Lonnie blew all their grocery cash on some gamble again, and Jonathan would sneak upstairs to Nancy’s room. It was pink. He felt safer there.

He still does. He doesn’t have to sneak up the stairs anymore, though.

It’s second nature, stepping through space, and he brings himself from the sidewalk to her side in an instant. Nancy barely flinches. She’s doing her physics homework. Jonathan pokes her shoulder in greeting and flickers onto the bed, landing on his back on top of the covers. He closes his eyes, humming happily.

“You better have taken your shoes off,” Nancy says.

“They’re next to your chair.”

“You teleported out of your shoes?” He shrugs. “Lazy bastard.”

“That’s me.”

She laughs quietly and continues her work. Jonathan lets his eyes close, sinking down into serenity. Nancy’s room smells like lavender and honey, like the candles she burns at night. They’re supposed to help with stress. It doesn’t seem to be working recently, if the bags under her eyes and extra shiver to her hands is any indication. He rolls his head to the side and lets his eyes fall open. Her profile is lit by her desk lamp, a twist in her temples as she stares down at the paper. Her pen is tap tap tapping against her knee.

Jonathan watches her for a moment. “Nancy,” he says softly.

“Hm?”

She hasn’t looked up at him. He pushes himself onto an elbow, extending his hand. “Nancy,” he says again. “Come here.”

“I have homework.”

“Nancy,” he whines.

She huffs and throws her pen down on her desk. “Goddammit, Jon,” she snaps, even though they both know he can feel her palpable relief. She rolls into his arms. “You’re a nuisance.”

“Always have been,” he agrees. “Get it from my dad.” She shrieks and smacks him. “Ow!”

“Don’t talk about fucking Lonnie!”

“Wh- how is he a sensitive topic for  _ you?”  _ he asks, as if he doesn’t know perfectly well that Nancy is just as much of him as he himself is, and the things that hurt him hurt her in reflection. Knowing that is half his impulse control, if he’s honest.

She sticks her tongue out at him. He pulls a face.

It’s half on impulse that he asks. “Do you dream about it?”

Nancy’s face sinks into something flat and numb and deeply sad that yanks Jonathan’s heart up through his throat. Her eyes don’t leave his, but something inside them curls into ash, leaving them hollow. “Yes.” She swallows hard. “I almost screamed,” she continues. Her voice has turned hoarse. “I dream about what would have happened if I had.” Her ankles are locked in his. “I dream about what would have happened if I ran.” Her knees knock into his. “I wonder if she wanted to run.” Her heart pulses against his chest, a striking thunder. “I dream about her choking.” Her breath mingles into his. “I dream about how it sounded when she asked me to stop.” Her eyes drag up to his. “I dream about how scared she was.” She links their hands. “I keep looking down and seeing the blood. Every morning, I wake up, and my hands are covered in blood.”

Jonathan wants a million things. He wants to tell her it’s okay. He wants to tell her she did what she had to. He wants to tell her she’s pure, wants to tell her she’s strong, wants to tell her she’s already earned all the forgiveness she could ever want. He wants to tell her she’s beautiful. He wants to tell her every word he can think of. He wants her. He wants  _ her,  _ with blood on her hands and guilt on her tongue, with regret between her teeth and doubt in her bones. In her worst and best forms, in her fury, in her madness, in her kind mornings and her desperate nights, he wants her. He wants every part of her beauty and every part of her flaws. He wants- God, he wants.

“Whatever it takes,” he whispers instead, and hopes she sees the forgiveness in his eyes.

“It shouldn’t take everything,” Nancy replies, her voice choked. “We don’t have everything to give.”

“No.” He can’t summon up anything but a sad smile. “No, we don’t. But we’re not just giving, Nance.” He tightens his grip on her hand. “It’s called taking lives, isn’t it? You deserved to take another day of peace. She tried to take your happiness.”

“I’m not happy.”

“And she would have made sure you never were.”

Nancy is quiet for a while. Jonathan pulls her closer, their bodies naturally curling together, his forehead pressing against hers. His eyes fall close again. He could dream right here, he thinks; dream, and dream of her.

Her voice is faint. “I love you. More than anything.” There’s something in her voice that’s more vulnerable than just the affection they exchange every day.

Jonathan pretends to be asleep.

.

.

“She’s not in love with me,” he says later that night. His mom is next to him on the couch, asleep. Will is in bed. Has been for nearly two hours. Jonathan is still on the corner of the couch, watching the static on the TV screen and letting a dead cigarette hang between his fingers. He has to speak out loud for things like this. He has enough practice defending his mind from Nancy to keep up those shaky walls, but anything too loud will bring them crumbling down, and right now, the inside of his skull is full of screaming. 

He drops the cigarette in the ashtray and pulls out a new one. “She’s not in love with me,” he repeats. He flicks his lighter.

_ Are you smoking? _

_ Shouldn’t you be asleep? _

_ You woke me up. I can taste it, asshole. _

He snorts.  _ Yeah, well, I could taste that blunt last weekend, so- _

_ Oh, fuck off!  _ He can perfectly imagine her scowl.  _ It’s not a crime. _

He stays silent.

_...It’s not as if I’ve never been a criminal before,  _ she amends.

He pulls the cigarette out of his mouth, wincing at the feeling of the smoke curling over his cracked lips.  _ We should get a cat. _

_ Huh? _

_ When we’re older. We should get a cat. _

Nancy is quiet for a minute.  _ Yeah,  _ he finally hears. It’s warm.  _ Yeah, we should. Let’s name it… Bishop. _

_ Alright,  _ he agrees.  _ Bishop the cat. _

_ I love you. _

_ I love you too. _

She’s smiling.

“She’s not in love with me,” Jonathan says yet again, his voice cracking. “You know that, right?” Mom doesn’t reply. Just shifts a little in her sleep. “She thinks she is, though. That hurts, Mom. Shit, it hurts.” He rubs at his sore eyes with a sigh. “It’s a curse, you know?” he continues conversationally. “Didn’t used to be. When I was little, shit. It was great. Always knew when Dad was mad or whatever.” His nose twitches at the smell of the smoke. “It’s just, like… that messed me up, didn’t it, Mom?” He looks over at her sleeping face. “Four years old and knowing your parents hate each other. That fucked me up.” Her brow is relaxed. It’s never relaxed when she’s awake. “I was six,” he says, “And I was scared of you. Because you and Dad screamed, and you said you loved me, but he said it too in his own way, so I didn’t know how to trust you. And it took me a long time to figure out why you were scared of me, too.”

Is that rain?

“Give and take,” Jonathan says, and stubs out the end of the cigarette. “I give and I take.” He thinks of Steve, thinks of the golden way he looks at him, and feels something in his chest constrict. “Poor Stevie,” he says softly.

Yeah, that’s rain.

Jonathan leans over and shakes at his mom’s shoulder. “Hey. We should probably go to bed.” She nods sleepily in agreement and kisses his cheek before she disappears into her room for the night. Jonathan stays on the couch, staring down at his notebook. The numbers and letters are all blending together in his tired eyes, but he’s stared at it long enough to know what it says anyway. He writes a new equation. He crosses it out.

_ Go to bed, Jonathan. _

He builds the walls around his mind a little stronger.

.

.

The whiskey tastes nice. It burns. Tommy takes another drink and washes out the glass, tucking it back under the towels in the linen closet. Mom is passed out on the couch. He could go root around in the kitchen for dinner, but he’s not feeling too inclined. He just wants to pack.

He can’t pack fully yet. He’s still got three days left in this shithole. He shoves some of his good stuff into a bag, though, his tapes and his sketchbooks and shit like that. A couple books, even though he’s never been huge on reading. There’s this novel Carol loves that he’d picked up a few weeks ago, and this little German thing on philosophy that he likes to read at night sometimes. Maybe he’s pretentious. He doesn’t think so, though. He’d taught himself the language off receipts and curses and his father’s old things, reading the backs of books and leafing through magazines and memorising from a dictionary in the library. He’s not brilliant- Tommy’s never been brilliant at anything- but he knows it well enough for some philosophy at night. Maybe he’ll travel someday.

For a moment, the thought of him and Carol on a motorbike, speeding across Europe together, crosses his mind. His hands pause. That’s a thought, isn’t it? They could have every adventure they’d ever dreamt of hand in hand and then settle down on some cheap land. He could build them a picket fence. Carol would probably rather paint it yellow than white. Maybe they could have a dog.

He’s grabbing the phone before he means to. She picks up on the third ring, her voice slow with sleep. “Perkins Re-”

“I’m leaving,” he interrupts.

There’s a pause. “What?” She sounds baffled.

Tommy has to swallow hard, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m leaving,” he says again. The words are harder to get out this time. They catch at the inside of his throat, snagging into the bone and tearing roughly, turning his voice hoarse. “For Cincinnati. I have a bus ticket for Friday.”

“Oh.” Carol is silent for a beat too long to handle. Tommy bites down harshly on his palm. His face is twisted up. He can’t help it. He can’t help it. He can’t help any of this. When she finally speaks again, her voice is wavering. “That’s pretty far away.”

“I know,” he whispers. “I know, Care, but my uncle-”

“You don’t have to explain. I don’t- I mean, I don’t  _ like  _ it, but you don’t have to explain. I know, baby.”

“Okay.” He smiles despite himself. “You’re an angel.”

She’s quiet again. His smile fades.

“Are you leaving me?”

Tommy thinks about the two of them on a motorbike, riding across Europe. “No. Not unless you want me to.”

“I don’t.”

“Okay.”

She sighs. “Goddammit, Tommy, I love you, okay?”

“I love y- hey, wait.” He frowns. “No. Take that back.”

“Tom-”

“We are not having our first love confession over the phone, Carol!” he hisses into the receiver.

Carol laughs a little. “I don’t know, it seems pretty on brand,” she teases. “But okay. I un-love you.”

“I un-love you too,” he replies. His mom shifts on the couch. He glances over his shoulder at her and pulls a face. “Hey, what kind of dogs do you like?”

“Huskies,” Carol replies instantly. “Or labs. But I don’t believe in purebred dogs, so we should get a rescue.” The answer is confident, as if she’s thought about it before. Tommy grins. His whole chest is warm.

“After graduation-”

“Don’t,” she interrupts. “Don’t remind me it’ll end. It hasn’t even started. I’ll figure out what I’m doing after once I’ve figured out what I’ll do now.”

That’s why he loves her.

“Okay, Care. You wanna get pancakes tomorrow?”

“Pick me up at eight.”

“Alright. Night, angel.”

There’s a smile in her voice. “Night.”

Tommy hangs up. Sighs a little bit. Glances back over his shoulder.

His dad came over during the war. Saved his own ass. He was on the boat on Yom Kippur, he’d always say, on the boat, with this man who wore a swastika staying with him. He used a fake name, a fake business card, a fake reason for crossing the ocean; on Yom Kippur, he held his own prayers as best he could, hidden from the man who wore a swastika. Without those prayers, Dad always said, I’d have given up. I’d have gotten caught. Two weeks after landing, he met Mom in New York, and two weeks after that, they rolled into Hawkins in a rusty car they’d bought for cheap. A house and two kids. A good life.

Dad was a good man. Mom was a good woman, too, maybe; Tommy thinks she was, once upon a time. He thinks he remembers gentleness and kind words. He thinks he remembers her holding him as he fell asleep. He’s not sure, though. He’s never sure of anything. He’s not even sure she’s not a good woman now. He doesn’t see her enough to be certain of anything. Dad was a good man, a good mooring. She drifted off without him.

Tommy doesn’t want to be his mom. He thinks he gets it, though.

.

.

“You’re terrible at this,” Nancy says fondly, fixing another equation. It’s not like it is with teachers, when they give him stern looks and roll their eyes and tell him he needs to get up to par. It’s like she genuinely doesn’t mind him struggling. Like she enjoys watching him grow. “I do,” she says, looking up at him with a smile. “I like seeing you learn. I love learning. Expanding who I am, expanding what I know, that feeling of victory when I nail something difficult, I love it. I love seeing you realise that you  _ can  _ learn.” She shrugs. “And besides, it’s okay to be terrible at math. I’m terrible at history. Sometimes it’s just not what your mind is built for. Learning is like… lifting weights. Sometimes those weights are heavier. You have to work a little harder. You’ll be stronger for it in the end.”

Steve frowns, starting his work over. “How does math make me stronger?”

“Your brain,” she explains. One finger taps at his temple. “It’ll help with your processing skills and everything.”

“Oh. Huh.” He nods. “I’m terrible at processing.”

“That’s okay. I’m terrible at focus.”

He nods to the pages and pages of scribbled drawings on her half-finished physics notes. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.” She smacks his arm.

He’s halfway through laughing when he hears his name. “Steve?” It’s broken, crumbling, almost rent to nothing, barely a crack in the space between them. Steve bolts to his feet, reaching out. Jonathan stumbles. “Steve,” he repeats. “Nancy. God, I-”

“Jonathan, what’s wrong?” Nancy asks, alarm swelling in her voice.

“I-”

She’s halfway through a step. “Jonathan-”

He’s gone.

There’s blood on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yeah !! leave me a comment to lmk what you thought or hmu on tumblr @theworriedman !!! always here to chat with some new peeps!! ily all!!

**Author's Note:**

> yeah so anyway
> 
> if you are confused feel free to drop a comment and ask me wtf is happening bc that's valid!!! love you guys !!
> 
> hmu @theworriedman on tumblr im sad and lonely and sick


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